


Ring Finger

by Hancockles



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Gore, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Master/Servant, Pain, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aldrich requires a sacrifice from each member of the church of the deep -- even from the esteemed Pontiff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ring Finger

The fact that Aldrich was now revered still had not settled with Sulyvahn. He was fine with his own position, of course, and felt he wielded it well, but always it was a struggle to separate the Saintly now-Aldrich from his previous, beloved then-Aldrich. Prayers were said, blessings were given; the Pontiff had a hard time keeping a straight face during a few, so involved and heartfelt were they. To him, Aldrich was still weak, still spoiled, still just a man.

Harder still to accept was Aldrich’s tail, the back piece, of always-churning sludge and whatever manner of darkness had wormed its way in, knitted itself between the patchwork of bones. Some devoted few touched it, and thanked their Saint for the gift they had been given. Messy hands, Sulyvahn thought. That’s all. He wouldn’t touch it. More often than not, he refused to even look at it.

Aldrich noticed, as he always did, and felt he was being horribly neglected. They had been so close before -- what had happened?

Sulyvahn knelt, head down, and waited for Aldrich to speak. (That was another inversion of their relationship -- the Saint goes first, always. Things had been equal, once.)

“Sulyvahn,” said Aldrich, voice curious, head cocked. “I find it strange that you have not sought a blessing from me.”

“Being Pontiff, it seems I am blessed enough.”

Aldrich laughed. “Don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.” At the sound of a great upheaval, Sulyvahn looked up. Aldrich had repositioned himself on his seat -- his throne, he liked to call it -- and then decided, suddenly, that he’d rather be on the Pontiff’s level. He lowered himself to the floor and crawled forward on his hands, until he was about a foot away. He caught Sulyvahn’s gaze. “You know how it’s done, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Sulyvahn thought of the countless hands that have been laid on Aldrich’s tail-end, and frowned. “I won’t be doing that, if that’s where this conversation is going.”

Since his canonization, Aldrich had been practicing a modest half-smile, meant to endear; it was a careful tilting of his lips, and it was this horrible little smile he now displayed to the Pontiff. “You have never touched that part of me, and I find that curious.” He snaked forward, pushing himself up with his arms, long tail stretched out behind him. “You’ve touched so many other parts of me. Why not this one?”

“I don’t enjoy this tone,” said Sulyvahn. “Or this conversation.” He moved to rise and added, as an afterthought, “Your grace.”

Aldrich caught him by the wrist and pulled him back down. The Saint positioned himself again, in that liquid way of his, and brought his tail front and center. Before he let go of Sulyvahn’s hand he traced his fingers down, to his hand, and held it.

“Your grace has requested something of you,” said Aldrich. “And you think to walk away from him?”

The half-smiled had disappeared, and had been overtaken by an expression that was bold, and which struck Sulyvahn in the heart, as solidly as would an arrow, and made him nervous.

The Pontiff realized his pulse had quickened. “Saint Aldrich. No. My apologies.” 

“Accepted,” said Aldrich easily. His tail writhed, and to Sulyvahn it looked to writhe in his direction. The movement drew his eyes to it. Aldrich’s own eyes bore a hole straight through him. The Saint said, “Lay your hands.”

He made motion to set his right palm on the viscous surface, but Aldrich halted him.

“Your left hand, if you please.”

It was a simple request, and one that was easily followed, but the fact of its simplicity made Sulyvahn wary. Aldrich hated wasted actions. Everything was symbolic, now. But how could this be?

After a moment of hesitation, Sulyvahn laid his hand flat on Aldrich’s hide. He felt it pulse beneath him; the texture was of warm, raw meat, or of butter left in the sun, or the soft underside of a crustacean. It was hard to pin his thoughts down. The feel of it made him dizzy.

“Such a good Pontiff,” said Aldrich. He looked pleased with the encounter; his eyes were half-lidded, his posture slack.

Sulyvahn tried to pull his hand away, found he could not, and stuttered. Aldrich watched on impassively. A cold sweat was breaking on the Pontiff’s forehead, and he grabbed his wrist, and pulled. Nothing. His hand was stuck fast to the flesh, like tar.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. Aldrich shrugged.

The dark flesh lurched, and climbed up the Pontiff’s ring finger, its movement steady as rising water.

It was nothing at first but warmth, ‘til that warmth grew into a tingle, which then blossomed into a keen burning on his skin. He looked to Aldrich, and saw his eyes were black, and hungry, and for the first time, Sulyvahn feared his Saint, and the dark eyes that were turned upon him. He yanked now, trying to wrest his arm free, but the more he struggled, the further entrenched he became, until the muck had reached his finger, to the knuckle, and dragged it into the mass. His other fingers were bent back painfully against Aldrich’s flesh.

“Aldrich-- come to your senses. You need me,” said Sulyvahn. There was a desperation in his voice that Aldrich quite enjoyed. “You can’t do this!”

The Pontiff’s ring finger, drawn deeper into the sludge, dislocated with a sickening pop; the rest was done by some manner of caustic mucus that burned away the skin and tendons. It was like ice, and then fire, and then he was not aware of having a finger at all. When all was eaten, Sulyvahn was able to pull himself free, with a grunt, and he landed on his back on the smooth tile, clutching his bleeding hand.

Aldrich was aware of his screams, but made no move to comfort him; the Saint was overcome with a warm, thick feeling that started where the Pontiff’s finger lay, then travelled through his body. Skin melted in him. Tendons snapped and disintegrated. Bone became another sharp tine, ready to strike. Since the source of the nourishment, and protection, was Sulyvahn, Aldrich felt grateful, and he turned a kind eye on his Pontiff.

“You monster,” said Sulyvahn. Blood stained his robe, where he clutched his hand to his breast.

“I wish you had let me use my mouth,” Aldrich said, in a daze.

“Is that all you have to say?” shouted Sulyvahn. He was having difficulty stanching the blood; color was fading from his cheeks.

“Oh, Sulyvahn,” whispered Aldrich. He drew near, took the Pontiff’s face in his hands. “It’s such a shame you’re so valuable to me. You taste better than any sacrifice.” He kissed Sulyvahn’s forehead, then the tip of his nose, as a lover would, and finally met his lips. They were cold, and trembling. The smell of blood was overpowering. “It is you I’d like to feel stirring within me,” Aldrich said.

Sulyvahn choked back a sob as Aldrich placed his lips against his neck, kissing, brushing his sharp teeth against soft flesh. But the saint pulled back, and looked at Sulyvahn, and frowned.

He shouted to the deacons waiting outside the door, and they promptly hurried in, taking the trembling Sulyvahn from Aldrich’s arms. It was an unusual show of restraint, and it hurt. Sulyvahn looked to him through glassy eyes, perhaps thinking of another admonishment. In the end, he wheezed, weakly, “You ate my fucking finger.”

“Your ring finger,” Aldrich said. He tried to hide the satisfaction in his voice. “Proof of your dedication to me.”

“There would have been no other,” said Sulyvahn. His fale was pale as a ghost; he leaned back into the arms of the deacons, unable to support himself. Still he clutched his bleeding hand, and tried to feel his missing finger.

“I have made sure of that, now,” said Aldrich. And then, to the deacons: “Get him out of my sight.”

Sulyvahn fainted before they reached the door. Aldrich watched until the way was closed, and then he turned his face to the window, to the moonlight, and thought of the warmth in his chest, and his limbs; and he thought of the Pontiff, and what other limbs he may not necessarily need.


End file.
